


Kept Safe for Tomorrow

by druxykexy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anders Whump, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendmance, Imprisonment, M/M, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Medical Experimentation, Torture, saarebas bindings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druxykexy/pseuds/druxykexy
Summary: Ignoring Hawke's order to "Just go," Anders joins the mages in the fight for the Gallows. But instead of finding victory, he is captured and taken to a facility where mages are being used in experiments.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rough draft for this fic has been sitting on my hard drive for over a year, and I finally decided to finish editing it and post it.
> 
> Title is from [Do You Love Me?](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/nickcavethebadseeds/doyouloveme.html) by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [RowanBaines](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanBaines) for beta reading this chapter!

“Wait!” Anders shouted, raising his hands to show the girl he meant no harm.

Still un-harrowed in her apprentice robes, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but she didn’t hesitate to slice the blade into her forearm.

“We’re here to help you—you don’t have to do that,” Anders said, even though he could see it was too late, that the whisper of invocation was already on her lips.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a mage make a deal with a demon. He understood—he didn’t _agree_ with, but he understood—how when a mage was cornered and alone, sometimes the satisfaction of taking their murderers down with them was the only thing they had left.

But this was different. The Gallows were falling. There was a very real possibility that the outcome of this battle would lead to freedom for the Kirkwall Circle, and by turning now, they risked not just their fellow mages, but everyone who was willing to fight by their side.

This wasn’t the unified front he’d dreamed of. This was chaos.

The girl’s form began to swell and distort.

Anders’ mana was depleted. He had little hope of winning this encounter. But it wasn’t as if he’d expected to survive this day. No, he’d expected Meredith to run him through on the spot, and when the task had fallen to Hawke he’d expected…well, he’d expected the Champion to do his duty.

Sometimes, in his weaker moments, he’d fantasized that Hawke would join him in his fight to protect the mages. That they would battle side by side to bring them freedom.

But in his heart, he’d known that would never come to pass.

He felt Justice stir. At least he wasn’t completely alone.

Anders readied his staff as the abomination turned toward him.

But then it jerked, halted in its advance. Its guttural shriek pierced the air at the hostile magic that kept it in thrall.

Anders recognized the spell rending its mind with terrifying visions, killing it with each pulse. It was one he’d never been able to master, although Hawke and Merrill had used it often.

That didn’t mean that either of them was the caster. The Gallows was full of mages, any number of which were capable of working entropic magic.

Anders forced himself to turn around, dread and anticipation vying for the right to empty his stomach.

Hawke was alone, no sign of the other companions, the ones he was still willing to fight beside, the ones he hadn’t told to _just go_.

The corpse of the abomination—of the girl—fell to the ground, and for a moment the only sounds were from far away.

There were scorch marks on Hawke’s robes and blood flecked across his face. His eyes were hard—dark, as if he hadn’t quite decided if he were here to save Anders…or if he was next.

It was the look Anders had been dreading, the reason he’d avoided Hawke’s gaze back in Lowtown when he’d been fully capable of facing down both Meredith and Orsino.

His heart was pounding even harder than when he’d expected a knife in his back, and Justice, already uneasy from the threat of battle, began to unravel at that fear.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Hawke said, and the anger in his voice did nothing to settle Justice.

“It’s my responsibility as much as any other mage. You can’t expect—” Anders floundered as he felt his own consciousness being pushed out. “No,” he said, this time to the spirit.

Hawke’s gaze flicked from Anders’ face down his length and back up again. Anders wondered if he could see it, that he was losing himself.

“Not now,” Anders begged, for all the good it would do.

The last thing he saw as his vision faded, was Hawke’s eyes as they narrowed—and his fingers as they tightened on his staff.

 

#

 

It was cold. Anders’ bare legs scraped against stone as he rolled onto his side. He was wearing someone else’s clothes, a plain black robe that had gotten tangled and bunched around his waist. He pushed it down as he scrambled to his feet. The bitter taste of magebane lingered in his mouth

Magebane was bad. _Templars_ used magebane.

Had the rebellion failed? Had the mages been vanquished and imprisoned? But no—the Right of Annulment had been in effect, mages were to be killed, not captured.

The room— _the cell?_ —was bare, giving no clues as to where he was. It had the deep dank feeling of being underground, but he didn’t feel the pull of darkspawn, so he couldn’t be too far beneath the earth. The pale walls and slab he’d been lying on had been carved from the surrounding stone, and there was no exit, no doors or windows, only some type of glowing blue barrier making up one wall.

It didn’t resemble his cell in Kinloch Hold, but it reminded him of it nonetheless. He pushed the memory away. The last thing he needed to do was panic.

He didn’t know what had happened to Hawke. If he was down in another cell, as alone and confused as Anders was, or if he’d managed to escape…or if he’d fallen on the battlefield, bleeding out while Anders wasn’t in a state of mind to help him…

He closed his eyes at the thought. It was useless to try to figure out what had happened when Justice had control. He pushed it—and other dark musings, that Hawke might have _left_ him here, that maybe Hawke had even arranged for his imprisonment—away. It didn’t matter now.

He turned his attention to the barrier. It hummed but he couldn’t feel its power. He told himself it didn’t matter, even had his mana not been drained, it was probably not anything he’d want to tamper with.

He reached out toward it anyway and felt a wave of force pushing him back.

So it _was_ a cell after all.

But before the familiar panic could overtake him, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps and clanking of plate armor.

There was nowhere in the room to hide.

Maybe that was for the best. Cowering rarely helped, in fact, it was more than likely to embolden those who meant harm than to inspire thoughts of mercy.

Anders straightened his shoulders and did his best to appear as confident as he could while barefoot and staff-less.

The barrier dissipated and he was dismayed, though not surprised, to see a templar.

Well, at least if they tortured him he didn’t have to worry about giving up information about the mage underground, or the whereabouts of his associates, even or his future plans since he could remember absolutely nothing. No, he’d just have to worry about the _torture_ part.

“Oh good.” Anders gave his best insincere smile. “I was just wondering if I was going to have to relieve myself in the corner, or if there would be more lavish accommodations—like a bucket?”

The templar’s helm made it difficult to tell if he was anyone Anders would recognize. Anders watched as slowly, deliberately, he removed first one gauntlet and then the other, hanging them on his belt before flexing his fingers.

It _was_ intimidating, but Anders didn’t allow himself to react. He couldn’t stop them from hurting him, but at least he could feel better about himself when he thought back about how he’d carried himself.

The templar held out a small vial. “Drink this.” His voice was familiar.

Anders took the vial, but made a show of holding it up to the light. “I’m not in the habit of taking unknown substances.” From the odor and the pale pink color it was almost certainly magebane.

“You’ll do what you’re told. And if a drop of that winds up on the floor, I’ll make you lap it up.”

Anders eyed him. “I’m just trying to find out if this is going to hurt me.”

“Not as much as I’m going to,” the templar threatened, rather uncreatively. But as he took a step forward Anders found himself taking a step back anyway.

Anders did his best to stop his hands from shaking as he downed the fluid. As foul as it was, if he had to take magebane he would prefer to get it this way, rather than have it fouling up his food and water, not when they were certain to be bad enough all by themselves.

The templar snatched the vial back from him as soon as it was empty.

“I’d have given it back if you’d just asked. It’s not like I wanted to hold on to it for some nefarious purpose, summoning demons or great gnashing nugs from the void. Not when—” Anders gasped as the templar backhanded him, his hand going to his cheek as he reeled backwards.

Fury burned in him, but he fought back the urge to retaliate. Templars had the nasty habit of coming in numbers, and any type of resistance was likely to bring them running. It would be different if he had his magic. He’d torch the bastard. Fireball between the eyes.

“I know who you are.” The templar grabbed Anders and spun him around, pinning his hands behind his back. “Abomination.”

“I wasn’t aware my identity was ever in doubt.” Anders tried to sound nonchalant, and like he wasn’t gritting his teeth against the bruising grip. “Guess there are some drawbacks to being infamous.”

“The recruits that were sent to collect mages, only got half their quota because of your little stunt.”

“Well, good. Can’t say I’m disappointed with—” Anders winced as the templar clamped shackles onto his wrists, pinching his skin.

“They had no time to check names or transfer phylacteries. So they didn’t know what they had. Not that it matters. You don’t have a name anymore.”

Anders was quiet for a moment. It was an odd remark. Usually templars were all about keeping tabs on mages any way they could. They weren’t about to just hand them anonymity.

“Won’t come in contact with any likely to recognize you, won’t come in contact with many at all while you’re here. And our researchers don’t get out much. To them you’re just some mage with an unusual ability. One that’s fun to study, I imagine.” He pushed Anders towards the opening. “Clearly the Maker wanted me to have you. To do the work of teaching a demon penance for his lies… And for that time he nearly let those bloodmages slip my grasp.”

Bloodmages? Anders had only ever helped one bloodmage, and she was actually Hawke’s fault, although—wait. A sick feeling rose in his belly. There had been the apostates hiding in the cave, and that one templar who’d argued with Thrask, who’d been particularly keen on executing mages.

“Ser Karras?” Anders asked, glancing back and trying to dampen his anger, but it only grew as he thought about what Alain had said about the beatings—and about Karras coming into his room at night.

Ser Karras tilted his head, as if pleased that Anders remembered him. Anders wondered if he’d still be pleased if he knew that he—and Hawke too for that matter—had always regretted not killing him.

“Move.”

Anders hesitated, but only for a moment before stepping into the hallway. “So, are you taking me anywhere interesting? Or are we just out for a stroll through dark tunnels and—ah!”

Anders stumbled to his knees at the force of Karras’ boot. He rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding a second kick to his ribs.

“Abominations shouldn’t be so noisy—or clumsy.”

Ander gritted his teeth, but managed not to snap anything back. It wasn’t going to help his plight, no matter how satisfying it would feel.

Karras stood too close as Anders struggled to his feet, his balance elusive with his hands behind his back. He was wary, but Karras neither helped nor hindered, which was probably about the best treatment he could expect.

Once he was upright, Karras directed him down the long stone hallway lined with doors, some magic and shimmering, others wooden and not.

Around the corner, the door was open to a small room. Three templars waited inside. Anders could see a table against each wall, each made from heavy wooden slab and fitted with restraints. The walls were lined with implements, all sorts of nasty prods and skewers and things with names he imagined were only whispered by the most depraved sorts in in the darkest corners of the Free Marches. But his eyes skipped past all that to the row of brands displayed above a brightly glowing forge.

Anders went cold. “No—you can’t.” He propelled himself backwards, crashing into Karras’ breastplate.

Karras gripped him for a moment, and when he spoke his voice low and pitched only for Anders’ ears. “After the crimes you’ve committed, abomination, be grateful we’re only taking your magic.”

Karras shoved him forward, unmindful of Anders’ screams as the templars converged on him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not graphic, this chapter does have references to subjects which could be triggering for some people. The specifics are listed in the notes at the end of the chapter, so please check them before reading if that is something that would be useful to you.
> 
> A huge thank you to [RowanBaines](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanBaines) for beta reading this chapter!

 

Hawke stood with his hands on the ship’s railing, watching the dock.

Isabela had come to stand beside him a few moments before. She’d made no effort to start a conversation and for that he was grateful. The crew was nearly finished readying the ship, and the peace would be broken soon enough.

Even as he had the thought, a crewman approached and spoke to Isabela.

Isabela waved a dismissal to the man, before turning back to Hawke and announcing, “It’s time.”

Hawke straightened slowly, stiff from injuries he’d only had the time and mana to heal partially, and nodded for her to lead the way.

He hefted his belongings—two bags of hastily snatched items from his estate—onto his back as he followed her. Everything else he owned had been left behind. He’d given Bodahn and Orana instructions to sell what they could. With any luck Aveline would be able to help them find safer lodgings. He tried not to think too much about the wealth he’d lost. What he had now was still more than he’d taken when he’d fled Ferelden.

Somehow, he’d still managed to find room for Anders’ pillow.

Isabela stopped at the gangway where Merrill and Varric were deep in conversation. Fenris was close beside them, leaning silently against a post. He was the first to notice Hawke and Isabela’s approach.

“We’re ready,” Hawke said.

Merrill’s eyes went wide. “Wait, are we leaving?” She looked back towards the dock as if she expected something—or someone—to have appeared when she wasn’t looking.

“We can’t afford to wait any longer,” Fenris said. He began to make his goodbye to Varric, but Merrill interrupted.

“What, are we going to just leave Anders here?” Merrill looked at Hawke, as if she thought he was the one person who would surely back her up.

“He left on his own.” Varric’s tone was curter than Hawke was used to hearing.

“Shh, kitten,” Isabela said, although not unkindly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Hawke was relieved when Varric spoke again before Merrill could argue further.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, Hawke.”

Hawke gave him a slight one-handed wave. “Until the next adventure.”

“The only adventuring I’ll be doing is the hunt for the next pint.”

“Sounds perfect.” Hawke’s smile felt hollow, and he wasn’t certain why he’d even bothered to make it. “And about Carver, would you—”

“Keep an eye on Junior, make sure there isn’t too much backlash on him. Got it.”

“We’ll be in Ostwick in three days,” Isabela cut in. “Likely to stay a week unless things get rough, or too rough to be fun anyway. Send a courier if there’s anything to tell.”

“If you don’t hear anything from me, just assume I was eaten by a pride demon or beheaded by a templar.” Varric’s shrugged, his attempt at humor falling flat.

Undaunted, Merrill engulfed him in a hug. “We’ll miss you. Make sure to write. And don’t let any templars eat you.”

“I’ll do my best, Daisy. And you…you watch out for…” He looked around the ship, the bustling crew, and frowned.

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Yes, worry about the bloodmage.”

“No need for that.” Isabela snaked an arm around Merrill, pulling her back to let Varric make his exit. “Safest spot on the ship is the one right beside me.”

“And the most trouble,” Fenris added.

Isabela winked at him. “Flatterer.”

It was amazing to Hawke how Isabela could act like nothing had changed. Although maybe it hadn’t, not for her. Or only for the better, since she’d finally gotten her chance to leave port.

“Take care of yourself, Broody.” Varric waved as he started down the ramp.

“You, as well.” Fenris gave him a solemn nod.

Once Varric was back on the dock and the gangway removed, Isabela led them to their cabins. Hawke and Fenris would be sharing one, while Merrill stayed with Isabela.

As the others disappeared into their rooms, Hawke hung back to ask Isabela a question.

“Any idea where we’ll go after Ostwick?”

“That all depends on what news we hear at arrival. See how big a splash this—” she waved in the direction of Kirkwall, “has made.”

Hawke bit back a sigh. “With our luck, it couldn’t just be limited to a local catastrophe, could it?”

She gave him a wry smile. “Probably not.”

“Guess I should get settled in, can’t let Fenris get the good bed.” He turned to go, but then stopped. “You know, I didn’t think I’d be doing this again.”

Isabela waited for him to gather his thoughts, her manner more patient than any would expect who didn’t know her well.

“It’s been over seven years since I’ve found myself running without any sense of where it is I’m running to.”

Isabela seemed to consider this for a moment, before she said, “I find that after you’ve shoved off is the best time to come up with a destination.”

“Planning was never to your taste?”

“Plans have a way of going wrong.” She moved to enter her room, and the rest was said over her shoulder. “No sense in looking for disappointment. Plenty of reasons enough already.”

Hawke frowned. He had no argument for that.

 

#

 

The templars carried Anders to one of the tables, wrenching his limbs into place and strapping him down.

His screams dissolved into begging. Hurried words that promised anything to make them stop, to let him go, to not make him Tranquil. Not that he truly had anything to barter, but the pleas spilled out all the same.

Two of the templars moved out of view, although he could sense one of them standing at the top of the table, behind his head.

The third one stayed beside him. He was the only one without a helm, a middle-aged man with closely cropped blond hair. He began to examine Anders’ body, and there was nothing gentle about his methods as he stretched and jabbed at skin, using a rod and caliper to take measurements of neck and collar bones, as well as waist and hips.

It was with great effort that Anders finally forced himself to be quiet, and to breathe. Clearly, they were used to tuning out the screams and suffering of their victims, and he wasn’t going to be able to help himself unless he could think. He had to try something, not just lose himself to mindless panic. He’d been ready to face his death bravely once that day—if it was still the same day, who knew how long Justice had held the reins—he could be brave again.

Possibly.

He’d never witnessed the rite, only seen the after effects. He didn’t know what was involved other than the scar it left behind and what it took from a mage. There was a possibility, although slim after what Karras had said, that a branding wasn’t what this was. He needed to find out.

“What are the measurements for?” Anders asked, his voice shakier than he meant it to be.

The blond ignored him.

“Have you devised some grandiose method of destroying the dastardly mage?” Anders did his best to project courage he didn’t feel. “Was a simple execution too good for me?”

He received a brief glance for that, but instead of answering, the blond picked up something from a tray.

It was hovering over Anders’ body before he recognized the gleam of metal as a scalpel, and he whimpered before he could bite back his reaction.

The man smirked at him. “Thought you’d found an ounce of backbone for a moment.”

Anders hoped that being mocked, in this instance at least, was better than being ignored. That maybe it meant he was a person—or at least something living—and not just an object to be worked on.

The blond gripped Anders’ index finger firmly, leaving the tip exposed.

“What are you doing?” Anders was unable to strip the panic from his words.

He hissed in pain as a quick incision was made in the pad of his finger, although a part of him was relieved that it was just a cut, and that the tip hadn’t been entirely sliced off.

The blond exchanged the scalpel for a small vial, and filled it with Anders’ blood.

“Is that—is that for a phylactery?” Anders tried to keep the hope out of his voice. As much as he hated the thought of anything that made him easier to track, there was no reason to create a phylactery for a Tranquil—or dead—mage.

“Better to make new ones than try to sort you lot out, after that mess.” The blond shifted his attention to the templar Anders couldn’t see. “Hold his head.”

Thick, rough, leather gloves gripped the sides of his face.

“Get his mouth open.”

“Wait—” Anders words were cut off by gloved fingers as they were forced between his lips, wedging painfully between his teeth. He bit down instinctively, but the fingers were shielded with some type of bracing beneath the leather, preventing him from doing any damage.

The way his mouth was held open allowed a straight path down his throat, and his mind seized in terror.

During his time in solitary, there had been a point where he’d decided to just stop eating and let nature take its course. It took a while for the guards to notice—they had a habit of forgetting to feed mages anyway—but when they did, they took it upon themselves to _force_ him. It hadn’t been about the wellbeing of a prisoner. It had been about control. And they’d gone out of their way to make it unpleasant.

Tears leaked out of his eyes as he tried to wrench his head free, but it did no good.

“Didn’t take much to make this one breakdown,” the one holding him said, clearly amused.

“Mages don’t turn to magic because they’re brave,” the blond responded.

“Well, he won’t find the easy way out here.”

“Wish he’d be quieter about it though.” The blond moved out of sight, which only increased Anders’ anxiety.

The one holding him gave Anders a small shake. “We’ll quiet you down soon enough.”

When the blond reappeared, Anders expected him to be carrying a feeding tube or the Tranquility brand—and in that moment, it was hard to remember which one of them was worse—but he only held something small and dark, made of metal and leather.

Anders didn’t know if he should be relieved or more afraid that he couldn’t identify its purpose.

“It’ll be easier on you if you keep your tongue down,” the blond said.

Anders didn’t have enough time to process what he meant before the metal part was slid into his mouth, pressing his tongue flat. It stopped just short of choking him, but was enough to make him wretch, only the emptiness of his stomach preventing him from tasting more than bile.

It was a gag, uncomfortable but at least it meant they weren’t planning on putting anything else into his mouth. Although he’d heard stories of forced feedings where a tube was inserted through the nose, but he didn’t think it was likely they’d go through that much trouble. At least not when he’d barely arrived.

The one with the gloves adjusted his grip, allowing the strap for the gag to be fastened around Anders’ head.

Anders flinched as a bit of his hair was wrenched out.

The blond cursed under his breath. “They should have shaved his head before bringing him here.”

“Want me to take care of it now?”

“No, let’s just get this done.” The blond tightened the strap, uncomfortably so, and then nodded for the other to release him.

He patted Anders’ cheek as he let him go. “No more stupid questions now.”

The blond turned to address the templar further away in the room. “The standard male bindings will fit him. Hand me the collar.”

 _Collar_? A part of him—a small and nearly hysterical part—whispered that he’d always said the mages were little more than slaves. This would only make it official.

But then he saw it, and while it wasn’t the same, it was smaller and with added runes that shimmered like black oil, the shape and design resembled the one that had been on that Qunari mage, Ketojan. A number was engraved in the front: 12:2.

If he was to be bound like a Saarebas, did that mean he was to be given to the Qunari?

Anders felt the pull of Justice, and for once he didn’t feel the dread that usually accompanied it. There was no one here who wasn’t already aware of Justice’s presence, and in a room full of templars, he wasn’t afraid of who they’d hurt.

Not that there was anything Justice could really do to them. He needed mana to cast just as much as Anders did, without it he was limited to human strength, and he’d be just as trapped inside the restraints.

But Anders suspected that regardless, for whatever was about to happen next, he would be grateful for what he would miss.

 

#

 

“Not now, Isabela,” Hawke said, rolling his empty mug on the table. After he’d gotten settled into his cabin, he’d wandered aimlessly around the ship until, inevitably, he’d found his way to the messdeck. And ale.

“Don’t be so glum.” She sat down across from him, placing a pitcher between them. “Look, I brought you a refill.”

“Who says I’m glum?” Hawke said, but he grudgingly poured the ale into his mug. She could stay until it was gone, he decided.

“Your eyes, the depressed droop of your shoulders—and the fact that that’s your fourth cup of stout.”

Hawke shrugged. “Fifth. If we’re counting.”

Isabela was quiet while he downed half his drink and placed it back on the table.

“You did tell him to leave, you know,” she said.

Hawke snorted. “And when was that? Right after the part where I told him I couldn’t wait to donate my family estate to looters? Or was it after I said I wanted to flee Kirkwall on a boat?”

“’Just go’ I think were your exact words.”

Hawke frowned. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Well, you can’t blame him for following your advice.”

When he’d told him to go, they’d been about to engage in combat where _both_ sides were eager to put a blade through Anders back at the first opportunity. It only made sense that he lay low until the fight was over, and then afterwards they’d…well, they’d figure the rest out.

Hawke hadn’t stopped to explain himself because he hadn’t needed to. And because he was angry, but Anders wouldn’t just jump to conclusions. Isabela was wrong.

“He knew what I meant.”

Isabela shrugged, unconvinced.

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Hawke asked.

“No, it’s supposed to make you think about what you’re going to do when you catch up with him.”

Hawke tensed. “Who says I want to catch up with him?” He finished his drink and poured another. “He should have had the courage to face me.”

“Well…” Isabela shrugged again. “You can be pretty scary.”

“I’m not in the mood to joke.”

She stood up and walked away from the table. For a moment he thought she’d taken offense, but she merely returned with a mug of her own.

For a while they drank in silence.

It wasn’t any better. His thoughts were just as hard to bear as the conversation. Going over the same points again and again, as if somehow he could make it make sense.

Because the thing was—up until everything had gone to hell—it had been an easy relationship. By far the easiest he’d ever had. In between all the fighting and turmoil in Kirkwall, they’d found solace and peace with each other. Anders was the one person Hawke could be around when he didn’t want to be around anyone. They fit.

That was what was making this so difficult to understand. That Anders had simply cut him out, that he’d set a course for his future without Hawke in it—regardless of whether that involved dying on the steps in Lowtown or fleeing alone as a fugitive—and hadn’t even bothered to tell him that’s what he was doing, was hard to move past. And for the record, sitting on a crate, unable to even look at Hawke when he was forced to decide his fate, had been a shitty way to say goodbye.

Not that Hawke had even realized it _was_ a goodbye. The idea that their relationship was over hadn’t even entered his head until they were halfway back to Hightown and Varric had given him his _condolences_. Even after Anders hadn’t been waiting at the estate, he’d still thought maybe he’d find him at the docks.

“I bought him house-shoes,” Hawke said.

Isabela’s brow wrinkled. “What?”

“He’s always walking around in these ragged old socks. He’ll let them get holes until I threaten to replace them and then he stitches them himself. Won’t trust them to Orana. I think he suspects I’ll have her swap them for new ones.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“But I never got the chance to give them to him. So there’s a wrapped pair of house-shoes, for a man I’ll never see again, sitting in a mansion in Hightown, a mansion inhabited by who knows what, if it hasn’t already been burned to the ground.” Hawke took a breath to steady his voice. “Anders ripped apart the lives of hundreds. He created chaos.”

Isabela was silent for a moment. “It seemed headed that way anyway.”

“I know.” Hawke’s fingers had tightened painfully on his mug and he forced them to relax. “It’s not that I don’t sympathize with the cause, but even if—damn it, he could have given me _warning_. Time to prepare. Orana, Bodahn, Sandal…they’ll all have to fend for themselves. The one thing I tried to do was take care of those closest to me and he stopped me from even being able to do that. Maker, damn him.”

“He meant well.”

He didn’t know if she was referring to the secrets, or the leaving, or the detonation of the Chantry, but he guessed it didn’t matter. “He always means well.”

“That’s got to count for something.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: torture, self-harm, starvation, and force feeding.


End file.
